


Other Half

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-01
Updated: 2002-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are managing a bit of Elvis, and they sound like every other boys' skiffle group he's heard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Half

  
Paul looks younger than he is. People often believe, at the first sight of his baby-soft cheeks and flyaway hair, that he is nearer to twelve than fourteen. And yet Paul is conscious of nearly a foot of acquired height in the last year alone. Like most youths his age he is perpetually on mental tiptoe, waiting for something -- anything -- to break the sameness of school, family, church.

In the last year he has taken an interest in music. The radio signals pulse over the ocean from America and make his heart beat faster, make him stand up and move around and touch things. He can't read musical notes yet, but he can play ten songs just from seeking out the sounds on his battered secondhand guitar. The tips of his fingers are horned with calluses, the nails ragged and short.

At the moment Paul stands in St. Peter's churchyard, surrounded by lingering remnants of the Woolton village fete. Paul purses his lips at the blank-faced Liverpudlians standing around in the worn grass, their eyes unfocused in the July afternoon. Watching their non-expressions, he blows air out of his mouth and puffs his cheeks. Something. Anything.

There's a band setting up on the outdoor stage. He has been asked to see them perform by his friend Ivan Vaughan, who also plays the guitar and has the same birthday as Paul, down to the date. Their hours have continued to coincide now that they've grown, the music filling up their afternoons after school, their weekends after chores. And yet despite this kinship Paul doesn't actually think Ivan is _good_ at the guitar -- at least, not better than himself.

The day is late already, the sun beginning a slow descent as the band quits worrying at their equipment, begins to strum a song. The churchyard was fuller around lunchtime when all the food stands were open. Now bits of paper and refuse speckle the lawn, and most of the booths have been closed. The people left over from the mid-day celebration presently comprise two types: stocky older men and their equally stocky wives furrowing their brows at the music, and younger people like Paul slinking about, sometimes whistling or snapping their fingers.

Paul himself only listens to the band with half an ear. They are managing a bit of Elvis, and they sound like every other boys' skiffle group he's heard.

Scattered applause rises from the crowd as they finish with a fumbling flourish. Ivan hops down to the threadbare lawn with nary a care for showmanship and lopes over to Paul. Behind him, the band launches into "Come Go With Me." It's a song Paul knows backwards and forwards.

"Ivan," he says, as his friend reaches him. "You're sitting this one out?"

A blush tinges Ivan's cheeks. "I don't know the chords to it."

"Ah. I suppose it takes a bit of practice." Paul tries not to look condescending.

"Yeah, but do you think I'm bound to get better? The others could be a bit fierce if I don't."

"Oh, sure, sure, just keep on like you have been." Paul clears his throat. "Er, Ivan, you did promise I could meet some girls at this fete."

Ivan chuckles. "I did, didn't I? Don't worry yourself, I'll introduce you to a few birds after the band's finished." He glances back at the stage. Taking the hint, Paul dutifully focuses his hearing.

The chap behind the microphone is singing with a high, earnest voice, his gaze squinting somewhere over the audience as he strums a cheap guitar. Halfway into the first verse Paul finds himself humming along in the back of his throat, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

He breaks off abruptly.

There's a tinge of almost-whine to the other boy's singing, something that presses right into the eardrums and leaves a handprint there. As the second verse begins a light breeze stirs his mousy brown hair and the singer blinks, eyes shifting sideways. The band makes an audible stumble as he misses his cue. He blushes fiercely, scarlet springing up his cheeks.

Paul shakes his head, leaning toward Ivan to say, "Nerves," or something superior like that.

But then the singer grins suddenly, a flash of wicked white teeth. He licks his lips, throwing a glance back at the other band members, and begins to make noise into the microphone again.

Paul's own mouth drops open as he realizes that the words falling in time now with the music don't actually belong to the song. "What the hell's he doing?" Paul gapes. "Making it up himself?"

Ivan nods, grinning. "That's John for you. Quick as a fox, the little bastard."

"He does it often, then?" But Paul only half hears Ivan's affirmative over the singer's insistent voice. The made-up words click into understanding in his brain, and Paul laughs out loud. "He's bloody good at that, if he's doing it on the spot."

"Oh, certainly," Ivan says. "I've seen him do three different versions of that song."

Paul winces as a guitar riff clatters and bangs through the middle of the bridge. "You couldn't tell from their playing, though. I could do that with my eyes closed."

"Could you? Want to meet the band afterwards? I'll introduce you. Before the birds, of course." Ivan winks.

Paul squares his shoulders. "Well, sure. Why not? What'd you say that chap's name is?"

"John," Ivan says. "We call ourselves The Quarrymen."

Paul watches the mouse-haired singer flashing that crafty smile at the crowd, still singing those off lyrics. The listeners seem to have awakened out of their afternoon daze and are wearing sharp, attentive expressions.

For a fleeting second a spiky burst of want makes the tips of Paul's fingers tingle. He wants right this minute to be looking down on that straggling puddle of faces, feeling their collective focus pushing him up to even greater heights than the skinny stage. He watches the leader John, quick-as-a-fox-John with his earnest irreverent singing, and wants more than anything to _be_ him. Right then and there, working a transformation on the entire afternoon.

But when Paul finally answers Ivan all he says is, "The Quarrymen. Odd name for a band, isn't it?"

"It was John's idea. You know, for Quarry Bank High School. Most of the band goes there."

Now they are winding down "Come Go With Me" and there is a new smoothness to their playing, an ease with which the notes are finally falling into place. Paul notices John's expression as they sail through the last few bars -- the blush has been completely obscured by a face-splitting grin.

"Is this the last song they'll do?" he asks Ivan.

"Yes. We're only a skiffle band, you know. Not a lot of the older folks really like the music."

"Yeah. Me Dad is always telling me to stop making such a racket."

The last chord strikes the air. More applause breaks out from the crowd. The Quarrymen take awkward bows, bodies gangly and ungraceful. After half a minute the applause dies down as people begin moving, looking for food or looking to leave.

"They're done," Ivan says. "Come on." He strides toward the stage, Paul following behind.

The Quarrymen are shuffling around packing instruments, but some of them look up and inspect Paul. Their eyes are curious but confident. They're all older, sixteen at least. Paul gives each one a careful nod.

John is toward the back near the drum set, still grinning and talking animatedly to another boy holding a guitar. The flush of his face reminds Paul of his father after a few shots of whisky.

"Hey fellas," Ivan says. "Meet me mate, Paul McCartney. He plays guitar as well."

The boys raise speculative eyebrows. "How long have you played for?" one asks.

Paul feels like an ant under a magnifying glass. "Just a year or so," he hedges. "I know a few songs."

"Yeah?" says another. "Like what?"

"Well, uh..."

Ivan claps a hand on Paul's shoulder. "Ah, don't be all modest all of a sudden. Someone hand 'im a guitar!"

"We've all packed." The first one gestures back at John and the other boy, still talking. "But Pete's still got his out."

Paul licks his lips, feeling his fingers twitch as Ivan calls out, "Hey, Pete. Can we have a go with your music box for a second?"

"Who wants a go?" Pete counters, and then he and John both amble over. Paul has to suppress the sudden urge to curl his rebellious fingers closed as John's muddy eyes slide over him.

"Who's this, Ivan?" John asks. He is still half-grinning, still flushed to the roots of his hair, and again it reminds Paul of his father three sheets to the wind.

Paul squares his shoulders. "Paul McCartney. Ivan asked me to come today."

The grin spreads, revealing white teeth. "Oh, well, I'm John Lennon then. How'd you like us?"

"Oh, you were good. Quite good." It is on the tip of Paul's tongue to mention the lyrics to "Come Go With Me," but his mouth feels loose and flapping, like it might let something escape if he continues to talk. So he simply nods to punctuate his praise.

"I'm Pete," says the other boy. "You wanted to use me guitar?"

"Uh, well, Ivan just said --"

"Yes, he does," Ivan interrupts. "Paul knows lots of songs."

"Well, let's hear one then." Pete passes the guitar over.

Paul examines the strap and then moves to sit on the edge of the stage with the instrument in his lap. "Sorry, guys, I'm a leftie." He strums his fingers down the strings, trying to get them moving in a way he can control. He looks up at the expectant faces of the boys standing around him. "Is 'Twenty Flight Rock' all right?"

"Yeah, yeah!" The boys nod approvingly.

"Okay." Paul starts into the beginning progression of chords, the music built into his hands from repeated play and drill. For a moment though he has to search his memory for the words. He wonders briefly what he'll say to these boys if he can't remember them -- he certainly can't improvise like John. But just in time the lyrics float to the surface and he begins to sing. "Oh, well I got a gal with a record machine...when it comes to rockin' she's the queen...we love to dance on a Saturday night...all alone when I can hold her tight...."

At fourteen, his voice is still in the between stages of breaking and higher than Eddie Cochran's. He tries to pitch it low, not wanting to squeak like a little kid.

In the middle of a verse he steals a glance at John. The grin he'd been starting to think of as permanent has faded away, and there's a look of surprise in its place. His thin red lips are slightly parted, his eyebrows raised as he tracks the movements of Paul's fingers.

"So I walk one, two flight, three flight four...five, six, seven flight, eight flight more...up on the twelfth I'm starting to sag...fifteenth floor I'm ready to drag...get to the top I'm too tired to rock...." Paul finishes the last chord progression, clearing his throat as he stands and passes the guitar back to Pete.

John is the first to speak. "How'd you learn all the chords and the words?"

"Listenin' to the radio, I guess," Paul says. "I just kind of remember it and try to copy it."

"Really? I just sort of make 'em up." John grins again, just a quick flash this time but still -- brilliant as lightning.

Paul repeats his earlier words to Ivan. "It takes a bit of practice, I reckon." He feels like he's speaking from a foot over his head, and tries to squash himself back down into his throat. "I can, uh, write the words down for you, if you want."

"Would you?" John casts about in his pockets and comes up with a tattered flyer for the Woolton fete. "Someone give the laddie a pen."

Paul takes the proffered writing materials and jumps down to the grass. Using the stage as a hard surface, he scrawls down the lyrics to "Twenty Flight Rock" in the margins of the flyer. John and Pete move to pack their instruments. "I know the words to 'Be Bop a Lula' as well," he says to John's back. "Do you want those?"

John turns. "Yeah, sure." He sets his guitar into its case and hops to the ground next to Paul. Standing very close, he watches the quick strokes of Paul's pen. "Right, then, could you teach me the chords one day?"

Paul looks up and meets his eyes. "Of course."

*

That night he practices guitar until his fingers sing with pain. His younger brother leans against the post of his bed, watching with wide dark eyes.

"You're getting loads better," Michael says.

"Thanks." A chord change, a bit flat on the C string, he can tell.

Michael is well-trained in observing Paul practice. He waits for a rest in the song, then asks, "D'you think you'll ever be a big star like Elvis?"

Paul stops for a second, letting silence settle over them. "Blimey," he says. "Nobody'll ever be as big as Elvis."


End file.
